Centuries ago, there lived a glass worker known as Silas. Silas was a true artist. He taught himself to work the glass, to guide heat through it and to shape it while it was molten. The art of glass was the art of fire, and in that, there was power. His works were known across the world for their beauty and splendour.
The barbarian queen Dral did not believe in beauty or splendour. Her soliders forced Silas from his home and dragged him to her court. "What purpose do your works serve?" she demanded.
According to witnesses, Silas laughed. "Give me glass," he said. "Give me fire and I'll show you what purpose I serve."
Intrigued, Queen Dral consigned him to a workshop, fitted with everything he could need.
The village was tucked neatly into the valley, surrounded by tree and rock. The wealth of the world poured down the slopes, shimmering waterfalls carrying forth the glittering treasures from the deepest caves. The village people are thankful for this wealth. They celebrate it frequently with festivals renowned across the world. As one, they gather on the banks of the mighty river, adorned in colourful costumes and sweet music and bountiful feasts. Deep into the night, they party, until the fires are dim and shadows hide their faces. It is time.
The spilled blood of the sacrificial lamb curls into the gentle flow of the river, twirling as it drifts downwards, spreading and expanding. The hoarse cheers shake the very trees, as both villager and visitor celebrate the slaying. The next year will be bountiful too, they hope. They keep their eyes down. Even the strangers know better than to look up.
When the girls of the village come of age, they take the long walk up the mountain. The trail is long and narrow, carved into the sheer cliff by a forgotten people. It loops and twists back on itself, dodging under outcroppings so low the girls have to crawl and through tunnels so tight they risk being crushed. Despite this, every girl reaches the summit, or at least, so the villagers claim. Would the broken body of one who fell too early be noticed? Would anyone care? Would it simply be swallowed by the river, flesh slipping under dark water so the current can flay skin from bone? Who checks that that the summit is mounted? Not the adults of the village, huddled in their houses, fires fighting against the isolation of foul deeds.
The girls themselves are indistinguishable, after all. She might be named Tabitha, or Annabeth, or Penelope. She might walk proud on strong legs or drag herself with weak arms. Her eyes may flash with intelligence, or fear, or both. The differences are irrelevant. All come. All walk the path. And at the summit, all find the same.
They call her The Old Hag, because if she has a name, it is spoken only by the wind. Her face is haggard, drooping, decorated with wrinkles and trauma. She sits atop the mountain, more statue than woman. She kneels in the stone circle, waiting. The air is thin here, and the clouds descend downwards so that the rain becomes a solid thing and the sun burns with the force of a forest fire and the snow settles onto your soul. The Old Hag kneels, regardless of the weather, regardless of the time. She's always waiting and watching. The faces of her victims change. Their names and histories intertwine until she can no longer tell the difference. But that matters not, because she bears the platter. Once shining silver, now tarnished and dark. She holds the platter aloft, the pliers there awaiting a girl. Any girl. They were all the same.
Lily approaches cautiously. Stacy sees her reflection staring back at her from the base of the dish, dark and twisted. Erica's fingers tentatively find the handles of the pliers. They feel familiar to Jess. They feel heavy to Romaine. Rose lifts them to her face to study the tool. The sun glinting off them momentarily blinds Tarragon. Darra screams and hurls them from the summit. Max watches them tumble end over end, disappearing into the dark of the night. The Old Hag laughs. So many faces. So many girls. And yet, all think the same. All do the same. The story is as old as time, as old as the rags and bones she clutches in two hands, as old as the screams of the girls as they fall from the clifftop.
Her smile is wide, her empty gums ragged and torn. She never stops to learn their names. They all fall the same.
And down below in the village, the villagers know to keep their eyes down. Flowers pile higher on the doorsteps of the parents, the mother distraught and the father empty and broken. And the younger sister tugs on sleeves and demands to know where sis went. The adults stare back down with heavy eyes because they know. They know what waits.
The river, flowing strong from the heart of the mountain, stays strong. It carries gold and gems, mighty fish, fresh and clear water. The slight iron tinge of the water is always attributed to the deep underground source, never the gallons of blood. Never to the sacrifice.
The town may have suffered for a lack of young girls. But the men grew up strong and brave, competitive and powerful. They ride forth to the world, adorned with coats of gold and swords gleaming. They ride forth to perform mighty heroics and feats of legend. With weapons bloody and consciences clean, they returned bearing valour and women. And their wives flocked willingly to the village, hearing of its wealth and strength. And tales grew of the mystical village, that legendary place where the streets ran with gold and the cries of young boys. These stories spread in the ways that stories do, passed from stranger to stranger, in the depths of taverns and the holds of ships. They reached the ears of kings and wizards. They flew, unassisted, carried forth under their own power. Wealth breeds respect and respect breeds awe.
And through it all, girls kept climbing the old trail. Girls kept falling out of the sky. And the villagers kept their eyes down, unable and unwilling to look.
Silas worked for 12 weeks and 12 days. Each and every night, the barbarian queen visited his workshop. She strode in and studied what he had made that day. "Worthless!" she would cry, as she smashed it with her mighty hammer. And Silas would sigh and shake his head.
It mattered not what he made. Goblets so elegant they brought tears to the most hardened mercenaries. Windows displaying the deeds of the queen in glorious splendour. Orbs trapping colours that did not exist and would never exist again. Statues of dragons and beasts that roared and danced in the sun. All these wonders and more were lost to the rages of Queen Dral.
It was sunny the day that Seri strode into the village. He walked on cat's paws and horse's hooves. Perhaps he appeared as a scarred old soldier or a beautiful young woman. Perhaps he was merely a shadow, a flash in the corner of their eyes. The specifics were unimportant and perhaps different to all the onlookers. The purpose of the disguise was not how he looked, but how he was felt. He was felt as an irrelevant, as something that could be ignored. He crept in this way, in skins that were not his own, to the very banks of the great river. And there, he shed his disguise and became himself.
He stood, this frail wizard, at the centre of the village, on the banks of the river. Old scars covered his arms and legs and his body spoke of hardship. He breathed deeply. The wind here tasted of blood and fire and desperation. He watched the machines pull golden thread from the river, weaving it into coats and boots. His eyes, dark and peering, studied the way the mortals went about their days, the way money changed hands, the shadows that held sway at the end of the trail up the mountains. No one looked up, but there was nary a cloud in the sky. Before any could stop to question him, he took to the form of a bird to drift upwards. Whatever trouble there was here, it was intimately connected to the old mountain trail. In the form of a bird, he perched on a branch and waited.
He was a bird for 7 days and 7 nights before a girl approached the path. She came with no procession but an old man dressed in a cloak and carrying a sword. He held it before him, a ward against the power of the mountain. The girl carried no weapon or cloak. She shivered, skin bared to the winter chill by the fabric of the white dress. She couldn't have been more than 12. She couldn't have been any smaller. She couldn't have been more scared.
"Go!", ordered the man.
Roots snapping at her bare feet, Ludmilla stumbled up the path. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn't understand. She was terrified. She hiked through the undergrowth slowly, the twisting stone path obscured by the trees. One foot in front of the other, she went onwards despite the pains in her feet.
A bird fluttered down from the bush onto the path, and fixed her with a quizzical eye. It was black feathered and cunning in beak. "Where do you go, girl?", it asked.
Ludmilla gasped. "Begone, spirit!", she cried and fled up the path, her dress fluttering behind her.
The bird took to air, landing on a branch. It watched her depart silently.
The bird followed Ludmilla for her long climb. On a distant wing, born by the winds, it studied as her muscles ached and failed, as scratches and cuts accumulated on her body, as frostbite threatened her fingers and toes. The bird fixed her in its mind, studying as she reached the summit. Things went in patterns and patterns left ghosts. The bird could feel the ghosts of this moment, the repetition carving an impact in time as obvious as the scar of a landslide. High in the sky, it watched. Things went the same as they always did, the hesitation, the rough and evil grasp of the tool, the rage and the throw. As the pliers went over the edge of the cliff, the bird dove. As Ludmilla went over the edge of the cliff, the wind crushing her voice, the cackling of The Old Hag in her ears, the bird found itself in front of her.
Seri cast off his form and for a moment, the two of them fell together. Two humans, battered by the winds, faces red and huffing, staring at each other. They were one and the same. He took her cheek in one hand.
Down below, there was no sickening thud as a body hit the rocks. There was no splash as it disappeared into dark water. There was no gentle hiss of bloody coils becoming one with the stream. And if the villagers had dared to raise their eyes, they would have seen two birds drifting high above, circling each other joyfully.
Seri descended to the summit of the mountain, returning to his truest flesh. Standing before the old crone, he called his staff to his outstretched hand, the carved wooden stick manifesting as though it has simply always been there. His face was pinched tight, confusion etched into the lines of his forehead.
"Why do you throw girls off cliffs?", he asked, simply.
The Old Hag stared at him, a new set of pliers already clutched in her fingers. Her toothless mouth split open into a wide frown. "The girl," she hissed. "You took the girl."
Seri turned his head, to where Ludmilla was already growing smaller against the setting sun. "She was never your girl."
"Of course not! She belongs to The Mountain King."
Seri paused to consider, the incoming night chill threatening to punch through his cloak. "But you consigned her to die. What king enjoys the company of dead girls?"
In a singsong voice, The Old Hag cried, "Beneath the mountain, there is a city. Beneath the city, there is a palace. Beneath the palace, there is a throne. Beneath the throne, there is a king."
Spellbound, Seri remained still as her bony hands clutched his chest.
"The King of the Mountain needs his wives. The King of the Mountain has lived many lives. The King of the Mountain always provides!"
And with that, she cast Seri from the top of the cliff. He fell for a long moment, seeing the village from above. It was full of light and sound and love.
Seri did not take up wings. Instead, he wove himself into the fabric of the world. Instead of hitting the ground, he simply went straight through. For a moment, he was deeply embedded in the rocks and soil, a fragment of a much greater whole. And then he was standing alone in the city of The Mountain King.
The city was deep and vast. Seri cupped a sun in his hands, its light barely scratching the weight of the shadows hanging over the cave. Houses in their thousands spread through narrow streets. Shops with signs in a long dead language punctuated the roads. He raised his hands, the light flying upwards into the massive roof of the cave. There was no response, no noise, no life. The city was long dead, long since abandoned. It was a tomb.
He walked along the river that bisected the city, that flowing beast which rippled and burbled at his presence. The river was unnatural, almost as unnatural as the wizard was. He stirred the surface with his staff as he walked, watching the ripples bounce over the surface, the light cascading through the space. The water hissed, almost angrily. It was full of blood and anger, spite and toxins. It was barely even water anymore. It was riddled with ghosts, angry spirits clinging desperately to it.
Cautiously, he opened his mind and saw. He watched the last days of the city, tens of thousands all laughing and crying and walking into water. The knives flashed and the water became blood, the great waterfall turning red until the bones dammed the river and flooded the city, the mountain itself rendered unstable by the climbing howling mess. Dark and putrid, it grew and consumed, until there was nothing left, the land itself scoured dry. Seri paused to consider.
He couldn't breathe. There was no air, because he was underwater, because the city was long flooded. The light dimmed as red tendrils of blood tentatively wrapped around it. The currents pulled at his cloak as it stuck to him, his staff decaying in as the water attacked it, reducing it to driftwood, the runes rubbed off. He'd always been underwater. How had he failed to notice?
It was oppressive, the way death hung over the foundation of reality here. It was oppressive, the way the ghosts clung to the first living thing they could get their hands on. It was oppressive. Their rage was so vast it threatened to pull him under, crushing him entirely. Just another face in the fluid.
Seri let his power swell to his surface, let it fill himself, let it overflow. This was a place of power. Where might struck him, he met it with skill, bending death itself. He inhaled, letting the blood fill his lungs and stomach, the foul sensation of it almost taking away his sense of body. For a small moment, he was the mass. And then he exhaled and pushed, taking control back. The river, great and powerful, shook. It recoiled, suddenly terrified of this man in its midst. The opening was all he needed. His mouth whispered a single spell, hands moving to match, and the river was his to command, his to banish. Ashamed, it retreated to its banks and he stood there laughing, coat perfectly dry, staff whole and glowing.
The doors to the palace flew open to his power, the throne-room dry and empty. It had not been touched in generations. The throne, carved directly from the rock, stood empty and proud. Seri studied it, straining to see any evidence of the past. There were no ghosts here. They'd fled to the river, that terrible mass of blood and guts in the shape of water. But surely there should be a king.
Behind the throne, built into the wall itself, was a massive sarcophagus. Seri ran a hand down its front, the weighty stone shut tight. His hands and lips moved as he worked his magic again, rending it open. Within, a single corpse stood still. Ostensibly human, now rotted and desiccated. It had been dressed in what may once have been fine silks and gold, but was now falling to pieces. The Mountain King was long dead, a gaping and ugly hole carved into the side of his neck. He held no power. Furious, Seri turned and strode for the surface.
On the final night, Silas faced the queen in her throne-room. "You do not understand beauty because you possess none," he said. "I know now how to please you. I will craft you something so beautiful that it will destroy you."
And with that, he returned to his workshop.
The great machines fell silent, casting an unnatural focus on the scene at the centre of the village. The wizard had walked out of the mountain and down the waterfall. He now stood there, upon the water itself, staring at the gathering crowd. Instead of gold and rich, the river was now flooded and angry, the red of blood suffusing it, the waterfall itself glowing crimson in the rising sun. The wizard raised his hands, his staff hovering behind him.
"Why do you kill girls?", asked Seri, voice level.
The crowd hesitated for a moment, glancing at each other. It was still early and most of them had awoken suddenly to the disturbed cries of the river workers. Finally, an old man stood forwards. His name was Tracha and he was respected in the village for his wisdom. He was the one who took the girls to the start of the trail. "We do no such thing, stranger! Perhaps you should explain what misfortune has befouled our river before you level such accusations."
"I breathe the stench of corpses in the water. I have descended to the depths of the world to commune with The Mountain King. I have flown to mountain high and witnessed a woman cast a girl to the tender embrace of gravity."
"What happens at mountain tops is not our business, stranger", stated Tracha. "It is not our territory."
Accusatorially, Seri raised a hand. "You send the girls to the mountaintop. What happens next is on you."
"No," stated Tracha, glancing around at the crowd. "The girls could choose to submit. It is their own choices that cause their death. Not ours."
"I see," said Seri.
Angry, Tracha continued, "What of you, stranger? You claim to have communed with The Mountain King. Perhaps then, you could explain why the river has changed. Without this river, what will we drink? What coin will buy our food?"
"I have committed no crime," said Seri. "The Mountain King is dead. There is nothing to this river but the spirits of the unquiet dead. I may have conjured them to the surface, but they were always there."
"It's not true!", cried a voice from the far bank. "He lies!" The crowd turned to look. The Old Hag stood there, dressed in her rags, hunched over and crooked, a single finger outstretched towards the wizard. "He stole a girl!"
A gasp went up from the crowd.
"I may have. What of it?", asked Seri.
"The Mountain King needs his wives," cried Tracha. Murmurs of agreement erupted behind him.
The Old Hag continued angrily, "The Mountain King is displeased! Behold his anger!"
On cue, the river began to rush faster, frothy pockets of foam erupting from the blood. Bubbles hissed to the surface as it heated, approaching a boil. The stench of iron lingered heavy in the air.
Seri drifted a little higher, keeping his feet clear of the mass. "So that's the truth? Your fortune is built on sacrifices to a dead god?"
"Hah!", laughed the Hag. "Dead? I think not! See for yourself."
A few scattered cries of assent erupted from the crowd, although most of the villagers had faces fixed in horror.
Deep in the bowels of the world, something stirred. A cloud blew in front of the sun. The corpse of the mountain king smiled.
Bones, an arm and fingers, burst from the surface of the blood, latching around Seri's ankle. He flinched, trying to pull away. But its grip was tight, dragging him down. Another arm burst forwards, grabbing at his free foot despite his kicking. More and more came forth, heads and shoulders erupting too. The skulls were small, the bones still adorned with the rags they wore in life. White dresses stained red with the blood of the river, steaming and burning. Screaming skulls clattered upwards, a climbing mound of bones pulling Seri down into it. His hands found his staff and he tried to work his magic, his mouth getting half of the spell out before he was under the surface and it was too late.
Face to face with The Mountain King, Seri was powerless. The blood filled his lungs, choking him. The ghosts clung to his own, the bones anchoring his body against a vicious current.
And The Mountain King spoke to all assembled. "I require a penance!" The blood rose, lapping at the feet of the assembled villagers, the skeletons of their lost daughters climbing to their feet, staring angrily.
"He requires a penance!", eagerly echoed the Hag.
His voice was deep and rough, erupting from the river itself. "You will bring me more wives."
"You will send him more wives!", again repeated the Hag.
"I am kind. I take your children, even when they fight me. Even when they deny me. I do this as a gift."
"The Mountain King is kind!", cried the Hag. The blood lapped higher, up to the knees of all assembled. Trapped under the surface, Seri struggled uselessly.
"To prove your loyalty...", he trailed off. "To prove your worth, your next child will join me willingly."
The Old Hag held up a pair of pliers, her demented grin showing off her toothless smile.
"She will demonstrate her submission to me. She will tear every tooth from her mouth and present them to me. She will do this and my kindness will resume."
"Every tooth!", cried the Hag.
Gasps of horror went up amongst the crowd. The skulls of the children all opened, displaying their empty jawbones. As one, they collapsed into piles, blood receding, The Mountain King retreating. Cackling, The Old Hag staggered away, a pair of pliers abandoned and lying on the ground ominously where she stood.
"The King has spoken," said Tracha. For a moment, he hesitated, hands shaking. Swallowing, he continued, "Our next offering will submit willingly." Softly, he said again, "The King has spoken", as though it might make the message less bitter. Unease floated through the crowd as they studied their crimson river of blood.
And on the final day, the barbarian queen entered Silas' workshop as normal. She was laughing, drunk and stupid. Silas was not there to greet her. Instead, the coils of a great serpent spread throughout the room, a snake of perfectly shining glass.
They didn't find Silas' body until the following day.
Seri stood in the court of The Mountain King, his hands bound in chains, his clothing long since taken. The Mountain King sat impressively on his throne, the perfect picture of nobility and grace. He was adorned in the finest jewellery and treasures. Indeed, the whole room was splendid, inlaid with intricate carvings and gold leaf. The gallery, both sides of the room, was full of ghostly figures, the fading remains of thousands of young girls, all adorned in identical robes, all with their teeth and nails plucked out. Blood dripping from their open mouths like drool as they stared at him.
Seri knew that he had crossed over a barrier somewhere. "Where have you brought me?" he asked.
"Silence!" The Mountain King raised a hand the colour of deepest stone. "I shall ask the questions, interloper."
Seri nodded. "Very well then, king. Ask."
"Who are you who dares stand before my court?"
"I am Seri, former apprentice to Aza."
The king sneered. "Well then Seri, former apprentice to Aza. What tribute have you brought for the pleasure of my wives?"
"I bring them fresh air," Seri replied. He took a deep breath and exhaled. The wives giggled happily, pantomiming breathing in.
The king frowned. "And what tribute have you brought for the prosperity of my kingdom?"
"I bring it vision," Seri replied. He plucked one of the eyes from his head and tossed it forwards onto the rock, where it sat and stared upwards.
Snarling, the king cried, "And what tribute have you brought for the stay of my own vengeance?"
"I bring you justice," Seri replied as he flung his hands up, conjuring fire.
The doors to the chamber burst open, blood filling the room. The wives cried out with fear as it swept them away, each and every one disintegrating under the force. The Mountain King screamed with rage as fire consumed him, as Seri stood calmly letting the wave bear down on him.
The two fought in the way of old things. The king leapt from his throne to wrap his strong hands around Seri's neck, and Seri danced away, the blood itself repelled from his body. Seri threw fire and lightning and magic at the king, and the king merely laughed as it broke against his body and spirit.
In the depth of the world, in the place between life and death, the two fought for what felt like years. But The Mountain King was powerful, built on years of sacrifices. This was his place of power, and so Seri could do nothing to him. Despite his best efforts, the king continued unabated.
But Seri was canny. He fought not to win, but to distract. To confuse the king, he split himself into eight parts, each of which behaved differently. And as eight parts, he separated and dove into the blood itself. He let it take him. Because the king was not the spirits of his people, though he ruled them. Their pain was great and their joys were none. But Seri had joy aplenty and so he made a deal with the river. And the king was left on the bank clutching at stones as the battered and broken body of the wizard crossed back to life.
Seri washed ashore just outside the village. The villagers were very good at looking down, and so they noticed immediately. Despite that, almost none of them moved to check on the wizard. And so, Seri lay there for a long time.
The snake shifted around the room, surrounding her in its curves. She ran a hand down the perfectly smooth flank of it. The snake did have a certain beauty, she had to admit. She was about to smash it to smithereens when news of Silas's death reached her.
She stayed her hand, instead dragging it to her court so it could sit atop her treasure hoard.
His dreams were ugly things. To the waking self, this would make sense. One could sort through how a rough past leads itself to malicious interpretation, how mild monsters and losses become great monsters threatening to devour him. But Seri was asleep and in the night his terrors were supreme.
Seri tore himself back to reality slowly. He came to wrapped in blankets, huddled on a bed. He was clean and dry. The air still had a foul coppery taste, but less so. The house was small, one room really. Someone was bustling nearby, managing a pot over a stove. There was giggling entering from outside.
He rose, wrapped in blankets, and studied the woman working the stove. She looked haggard, as if she hadn't slept in weeks.
"I thank you," he said.
"Oh!" The woman jumped slightly. "You're awake."
Seri bowed, careful to keep the blankets wrapped around his otherwise naked body. "My name is Seri, madam. I am in your debt."
The woman spoke quietly. "My name is Nara. Wizard, I beg you-"
She was cut off by a giggling child bursting through the door. Her hair was a tangled web, her dress was covered in mud, and her flushed face was beaming. She cried, "Mama, mama!"
Embracing her child, Nara looked back at Seri. "Mama! Mister Tracha says I get to save the village!" The child was beaming.
"Oh, Seraphine. How are you going to do that?" Sadness tinged Nara's voice.
"He says I get to climb the big mountain! And he's going to go with me to make sure I go safely and there's going to be a nice old lady up there and she's going to help me and-"
Seri interrupted, laying a hand on Seraphine's shoulder. "Hello, Seraphine. My name is Seri!"
Nara's eyes met Seri's. "Save her," she mouthed. "Please."
Seraphine beamed at him. "Oh, hello Mister Wizard! Are you going to come up the mountain with me?"
Seri nodded once and his lips made a smile his eyes didn't match. "Yes, child. Yes, I think I will." He paused, thoughtfully. "How long until you depart?"
Seraphine screwed up her face in concentration. "Umm, I think Mister Tracha said we'd go up in a week."
"Thank you, Seraphine. Now, if you'll excuse me." He dropped the blankets, his robes appearing over his body as if called. His staff materialized into an outstretched hand and he strode for the door. "I have work to do. I shall return." His voice was calm and confident. "This, I vow. You have the protection of Seri, Aza's greatest apprentice."
"Goodbye Mister Wizard!" cried the child.
"Goodbye Wizard," whispered Nara, softly.
The glass snake, though the size of any six men, had no teeth. "What good is a snake with no fangs?" asked Queen Dral.
Despite their best efforts, none of the court could answer that riddle.
The villagers stared at Seri angrily as he strode through the town. He carefully kept his face imperious as he walked back to the river. It hissed angrily, flowing a deep bloody crimson. Kneeling, he ran a hand gently along the surface, feeling the anger contained within. He had learned much from his loss to The Mountain King. The king was dead. It was an angry spirit clinging to the whole mountain. That in itself was fascinating. Seri had never seen anything like it before. He would've gladly stayed to study it even without owing a debt. But he had made a vow to save the child, and so he would. Whatever the cost.
But how to save the child? The easiest option was to spirit her away. But surely that would merely lead to further escalation. If provoked, there was nothing stopping the king from drowning the whole village, as he had his kingdom many years ago. He could enchant something with the girl's form, perhaps a rock granted motion and semblance. But such a deception would surely be discovered with time.
No, the clear solution was to slay The Mountain King. And that itself was a tragedy, for The Mountain King was a unique and powerful spirit, worthy of legend. And to strike at it would surely require him to plunge deep into its territory. Not the physical reality of the city, but the spiritual one, the place where the boundaries between life and death were thin. Where mortal magic was weakest and spirits were strongest. But the weight of the bundled river sat heavy in his mind. In the physical world, it had almost overwhelmed him when he last visited the city. To attack the king directly in his place of power was simply unthinkable. It was on a level of power he simply couldn't match.
How would Aza solve such problems? She would tear the essence of it from the world. She would pluck the concept of blood from the river, leaving clear water. She would pluck the concept of anger from the spirits, themselves leaving calm air. She would pluck the king from his throne, leaving the silence of the dead. She would use patterns and symmetry, killing the king in death as he died in life. "Poetry, Seri," she would say. "The world rhymes. See the patterns." Growling, Seri banished such thoughts from his mind. It was unproductive to obsess over how much more there was to learn.
A stern voice broke through his reverie. "You should be dead, wizard."
Seri turned his head to look at Tracha. Still kneeling, he gave a bitter laugh. "How many years have you been buying wealth? How many girls have you slain?"
"I do not slay girls!" Tracha's face, squat and red, betrayed his anger at the accusation.
Seri stood. "You sent them to their death. Is the judge who proclaims death not responsible for the sentence? Do not let others carry your dirt, for it will always find its way home."
"What would you know of wisdom? For centuries we have had peace and prosperity, even as the world raged around us. Through war and beast, we stay strong. We stay peaceful. Surely any price is worth that."
"Not suffering."
Tracha laughed. "And what would you know of suffering?"
Anger flashed across Seri's face, his muscles tightening beneath scarred flesh. "More than you would think, mortal," he muttered darkly.
"What will you do, wizard? All that power and all you bring is failure. You have no right."
Seri sighed. "I seek to know more about The Mountain King. Who would know such?"
"Hah! Why, so you can see the errors of your ways? The Old King was a good man, wizard. He cares for us out of kindness."
Seri studied the buildings across the town. A tall church caught his eye. Without looking at Tracha, he replied bluntly. "Yes."
Tracha snorted. "The Old Hag would know. But I doubt she'd tell you."
"I see." Seri began walking towards the church. "Thank you."
"I hope you die!" yelled Tracha.
Seri didn't dignify that with a response.
The church was an old carved stone building. It was clearly unused. Weeds sprouted around the edges of the building and the massive door hung ajar. It creaked open as he pushed, revealing a massive and cavernous interior. Amidst the rotting chairs and old books, dotted with falling stones from the failing ceiling, was shattered glass. Seri gazed upwards, to what was once a beautiful stained glass window. Now shattered, precious few fragments clung to the edges of the window frame. Seri bent and picked up a piece of clear glass, massive and sharp. He considered it for a while. It was a primitive sort of weapon. But maybe that was what he needed.
The barbarian queen threw a man to the snake and told it to kill him. She laughed, expecting it to try to eat him and fail. Instead, she watched through its coils as it curled tighter and tighter around him, flesh wrapping around bone. Arms bent wrong and exploded, shards of bones splattering a gory spray through the tight interior. And tighter still the snake curled, until there was nothing left of the poor man.
She had never seen anything more beautiful.
On his first attempt, Seri came to the Old Hag in the form of a young girl.
"I am here to pull out my teeth," she said. "But first, please tell me of The Mountain King."
The Old Hag laughed and threw her from the mountaintop. She would not be so easily tricked.
On his second attempt, Seri came to the Old Hag dressed in the pelt of a mighty bear. He stood before her and roared loudly. In the language of the deepest forest, he proclaimed that he was to bring tribute to The Mountain King and sought to know what would be appropriate.
The Old Hag approached, gently placing a hand on his muzzle. Before he could react, her knife slit his throat. "These pelts will do nicely," she cackled.
On his third attempt, Seri came to the Old Hag as a mighty warrior astride a powerful steed. "You there!" he cried. "Tell me who rules this land!"
The Old Hag was wrapped up in the fur of a bear. "You must think me a daft old fool, wizard."
"Tell me," roared the warrior. "Tell me of your master or I shall present him with your head!"
But the Old Hag didn't get to be old by being easy to kill. She was not a woman, but a rock. And each blow of Seri's sword did nothing but scratch her surface.
On his fourth attempt, Seri came as a handsome young man. He moved to woo the hag, to impress her with gifts and splendour.
The Old Hag laughed him off. She was married and would accept no other suitors.
On his fifth attempt, Seri came wearing the feathers of a mighty bird. Tapping his beak on the stone to get her attention, he asked, "I am Arsh-Renolk, servant of the Goddess Arsh-Renawa the Knowledge-Keeper! I seek tales of The Mountain King to write into my book."
The Old Hag laughed at the boldness of this little bird. "Tell your goddess that The Mountain King loved birds in his pie. Tell her that he'll bake one for her if she would grace him with a visit." She licked her lips hungrily. It had been many years since she had eaten such a pie.
On his sixth attempt, Seri came cloaked in no flesh but his own. "Please, miss. May I sit?"
The Old Hag smiled crookedly. "I am not your master, young wizard."
The two sat together for some hours without speaking.
Finally, the Old Hag asked, "What matter is it to you?"
Seri thought for a long moment. "It is what my master would have done," he said, finally.
"No other reason?"
"Reasons are like fish. The ocean is full of uncountable millions, some for and some against. But the current is out of the hands of all of them. I walk my master's path for I wish to claim her power. She was a hero, and so I must be."
The Old Hag said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
"Why here? All worlds are so full of suffering and pain. This is where I find myself, and so this is where I must work. You are not special. I doubt I will remember the specifics when I am done, merely the lessons." Seri paused for a moment and smiled softly. "If there even are any here."
"You should move on then," said the Hag.
"I took a vow," replied Seri.
The Old Hag had nothing to say to that.
"And you?" asked Seri. "Who were you?"
Proudly, the Hag said, "I am The Mountain King's second wife! I am the most beautiful and desired of all of his girls. I serve him faithfully and he blesses me with his life."
Seri studied the ancient weathered face of the hag. "It must be lonely."
She spat at his feet.
"What of his first wife?"
The Old Hag screamed. "Do not speak her name! Do not speak of her!" She wailed and cried, her voice echoing through the night sky.
Seri thought this over. "Where are your teeth?" he asked.
"I have no teeth. No teeth!" cried The Old Hag. She held her mouth open to show.
Seri felt his own teeth with his tongue. "I must save this girl," he said.
The Old Hag did not reply.
"What if I gave her a weapon?"
She hissed, "I would take it."
"What if I gave her a gift?"
She hissed, "I would claim it."
"What if I came instead?"
She hissed, "Would you be so willing to pull the teeth from your own mouth? To give your own freedom to The Mountain King for some girl?"
"I see," said Seri.
"And now that you see, surely you must give up your quest," croaked the Hag, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Seri did not reply.
Assassin after assassin came for barbarian Queen Dral, for she ruled much of the world and she pillaged it for all the riches it could offer. She was not afraid of death, but she was in no hurry to meet it. Guard after guard failed her, and she turned to more desperate measures.
She took to sleeping nestled into the coils of her great glass serpent, it protecting her with its might. She had forgotten where it had come from. All she knew was that it was powerful, and therefore beautiful.
"Submission flows from fear. What we fear most is driven by pain and the threat thereof."
Seri spoke aloud to himself as he stood over the stove, stirring the soup automatically. Seraphine sat on the bed and watched, kicking her feet.
"Child, always remember that we attempt control of that which we fear. Keep your teeth in your mouth, for they give your words bite. Keep your tools sharp."
Seraphine wasn't really listening. She was humming to herself. That was okay. Seri was mostly speaking for his own benefit.
"And we have to ask. Why the teeth? There are many forms of dominance, from collars, to chains, to the removal of fingers. Is it a mark against beauty? Is it a mark against consumption? No, child. It is fear most primal. It is his single driving emotion."
Seraphine smiled happily. The soup smelled good.
"He drowns his people not from desire, but from malice. From revenge. For an act of potency and divine inspiration. he takes and takes to replace the hole in his heart. What is he, but a puppet king? What purpose does he serve?"
The fragment of glass, beautiful and pristine, sat on the table. It glittered with enchantments laid upon it.
"Tomorrow, child. Do you trust me?"
"Yes!" said Seraphine without hesitation.
"You will do as I say?"
Seraphine's smile couldn't get any wider. "It'll save the village, right?"
"Oh, yes."
"I'll do it!"
Seri faced her. "You are a brave child."
"You are a brave wizard!"
He laughed at that. "Come then. Call for your mother. It is dinnertime, and so we shall eat."
At midnight, Seri sat by the river. One by one, he plucked out each of his teeth. One by one, he placed them in his hand. And when he was done, he squeezed his hand shut and they were gone.
The barbarian queen loved her serpent. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever come across.
Seraphine said nothing to Tracha and his thugs as they arrived at her door. She said nothing as their tight hands gripped her shoulder, dragged her up the path. She kept her mouth firmly shut as they crawled under stone and climbed cliff face. She said nothing as she glanced upwards and saw a dark bird on the wing, her protector above. The others did not look up. They didn't know how.
Things were different this time. The Old Hag knew it. She watched as Seraphine strode proudly into the circle and opened her mouth. She had no teeth. Shocked, the villagers who had come inspected her mouth. Indeed, her gums were bare, her tongue stained with the telltale blood of the process. The Old Hag tossed aside her pliers and platter. They would not be needed today.
Clutching Seraphine's arm, she guided her deep beneath the earth. Far above, a bird cried out sadly.
The anger of the old city was palpable as the pair followed the river to its source. It strengthened as they crossed from the living to that unpleasant place where the dead linger. It was the anger of the murdered. It was the anger of the victims of an insane king. In life, he had commanded their death. And now, in death, they commanded his. But his will was iron. At his command the river would flow, calm and clear, rich and bountiful, evil and bloody. They were slaves to their god, built on a throne of bodies.
Seraphine listened to their cries as she walked. She listened to the voices as they told her of their queen. How they missed her. Her calm wisdom, her radiant beauty, her perfect teeth. How had this happened? How had she fallen? What evils had her husband inflicted? What had happened that night?
The palace of The Mountain King sat open, ready to receive his newest girl. He sat on his throne and smiled. "Smile for me, my wife. We are to be wed!"
The ceremony was brief and simple. There was no minister and the only audience was the ghosts of all his other wives. The Old Hag stood in the crowd and smiled sweetly, for she had done well.
And after words were said, The Mountain King wrapped Seraphine up in his arms. He smiled, his long dead lips cracked and torn. A faint scar marked his neck. His tongue, bloated and black, curled outwards.
"Kiss me, my pet," he whispered.
It may have been coincidence or fate that Seri sounded so much like Seraphine. For it was easier to confuse things that were similar. Seri smiled right back at The Mountain King.
It was reflected in the water. It was reflected in his every move. The king may take any as his wife, so said the king. Refusal was a privilege to be stripped away with weapons and clothes. Naked as he took her, she used what she had. The ghost of his first wife wailed lamentations, her teeth still dripping with the blood of he who abused her.
Seri's grin was massive. The Mountain King never saw it, merely feeling the pain once again. History moves in patterns. Like a poem, the important details repeat.
Glass teeth are a beautifully tragic tool. Exquisitely carved, surely they represent the pinnacle of skill. And yet, they cannot be seen or admired. To use them is to shatter them. All that artistry for but a single invisible bite. What is that worth to anyone?
And the people of that ancient city rejoiced, for they were free. They took the treasures of their city and pushed them into the river, not in drips and drabs, but in a whole great mass. The river became not one of water, but of purest gold. And they rode the gold out into the world, finding their way into oceans deep and forests tall. They found their freedom and their peace.
And the villagers despaired, for there was no longer water. The smart left, for beauty and riches are never worth life. But the obsessed, those who had no skill other than looking down, remained. They sat by the river and cried and begged and wailed. They sat by the river until they could take no more and strode into it, letting the spirits of the dead carry them from their bodies into the cracks of the world.
And outside of the village, a bird landed in the waiting arms of her mother. Hand in hand, they followed the river, letting the gold protect them.
Seri laughed as he walked out of the world and on to the next. This, he would remember. He would remember the feeble mountain king and the fools that fed him. He would remember that sacrifice breeds power and riches could ensnare fools. He would remember the power of a trick that can only be performed once. He would remember that beauty traps thoughts. Yes, he would remember this day.
He would remember by the blood that poured from his mouth as he smiled. He would remember by the tearing of his lips. He would remember by the fragments of glass that dripped from his shadow. He would remember by the teeth he tossed hand to hand as he walked. Such was the weight of a vow. Such was the path he walked.
Such was ascendence.
And so ended the reign of the barbarian queen. They found her the next day, headless, trapped in the gullet of the mighty snake. The beast was dead. Its head had shattered with the force of the bite that cracked her skull.
They say it was the most beautiful sight anyone had ever seen.